


Lemon

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 20:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13465902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ignis has to go, but there’s no time to pull over. Prompto to the rescue.





	Lemon

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Ignis often takes the wheel for long hours without a break. Prompto's sitting right next to him, equipped with a perfectly functional mouth.” prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s barely gotten dark, and Noctis is already asleep in the backseat—Ignis can always tell. Gladiolus is so thoroughly absorbed in his book that, as far as Ignis has seen in the mirror, he hasn’t so much as looked up in over an hour. Prompto keeps fidgeting, either ogling the view or playing with his camera or toying with his phone, but that’s nothing new. Ignis, as per usual, has to keep all his focus solely on the road. 

In most cases, that’s just second nature. Tonight, it’s easier said than done. He doesn’t fidget quite as much as Prompto does, but that’s only because he makes an effort not to. He knows rubbing his thighs together will only make it worse. He would cross one leg over the other if there was any room, but there isn’t, and he needs both feet by the pedals. He tries to adjust his posture, but nothing gives relief.

Nothing will. He knows that. But he’s not willing to relieve himself in the opens plains of the wide desert, and he knows they won’t be nearing another rest stop for some time. Besides, there’s no _time_ to stop. They have to be in Lestallum by the morning, and they’ll just _barely_ make it as it is. 

If Noctis needed to go, that would, of course, be another matter, and Ignis would pull right over. But he won’t afford himself such luxury. So he just stares ahead and tries to concentrate. It’s perilous to drive at night, even with how good they’ve gotten at fighting, and Ignis doesn’t plan on suffering an accident just because his bladder’s overactive.

“Iggy?” Prompto chirps from the passenger’s seat, reclining back in the Regalia’s newly washed seats. “You doing okay?”

Ignis lies, “Quite.” He can see Prompto’s disbelieving frown, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Prompto drops it for another round of King’s Knight, during which the backseat is dead quiet and Ignis’ situation grows ever more dire. He still ignores it. He has to. He has his foot heavy on the gas, but the tank should last them just long enough. They _have_ to make it.

Prompto asks again, “Ignis? You look really, uh... uncomfortable...”

He is. It isn’t a pleasant feeling at all to know he’s one step away from soaking his own trousers, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He’ll just have to _hold on_. He thinks of brushing Prompto off again, but he doesn’t want Prompto worrying any louder lest their teammates be alerted. So he quietly admits beneath the wind, “I might be in slight need of a restroom.”

Prompto lets out a little ‘oh,’ then tries, “Shouldn’t you pull over...?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t the time to find a suitable stop.”

“So... you’re just gonna...?”

Ignis answers with a curt nod. He’s just going to do exactly that: nothing. It’s all he can do. It’s hardly the best idea he’s ever had, but he hopes it’s sufficient to at least have Prompto drop it—the problem seems even more pressing when it’s under the spotlight. In the corner of his eye, he can see Prompto’s blue eyes flickering down, lingering along his crotch, which only makes things infinitely worse. Ignis bites the inside of his lip just to try and distract himself with a spark of pain. It doesn’t work. Prompto stares between his thighs for an indecently long time.

Of course, the entire situation is indecent. And Prompto is absolutely no help—he mutters, “I could, uh... hold a bottle for you?”

Ignis’ eyebrows shoot up. He still doesn’t look over. He answers tightly, “The awkwardness of such a task aside, we would have nowhere to put it afterwards.” A bottle of urine is hardly something he wants to cart around in the Regalia, and he’s not about to throw such filth out into the landscape. Prompto must know that. He should really just drop it.

Instead, he mumbles even quieter, “How about my stomach?”

Ignis’ head snaps around, and it’s a small miracle that he doesn’t swerve right off the road. Somehow he keeps them going, smooth enough that the backseat still doesn’t stir. Maybe Gladiolus has even nodded off—it’s late enough. Ignis doesn’t check the mirror. He’s busy staring at Prompto, whose freckled cheeks are lit up with a blush, cute face awash with obvious embarrassment. Ignis fully expects him to break out into forced laughter and explain his crude, poor joke, but he only adds sheepishly, “Of course, no point wasting a bottle then—I should just drink it up straight from the source, right?” 

Dry mouthed, Ignis utters hoarsely, “Prompto...”

“What? It’s just helping a bro out!” Prompto counters, which doesn’t sound even remotely right, but he gushes through a thick blush, “I mean, it only makes sense. You don’t wanna stop driving, and I have a perfectly good mouth right here, and I... I’m kinda thirsty anyway...”

Granted, their supplies are limited. But Ignis is fairly confident they could find Prompto a better drink than _piss_. He can’t believe Prompto’s even suggesting it. He can’t believe he isn’t hearing a riot from the peanut gallery. He finally checks the mirror, and sure enough, Gladiolus’ slumped over in his seat, eyes closed, Noctis curled against his shoulder. They couldn’t have picked a better time to sleep.

Ignis couldn’t sleep if he wanted to. His groaning bladder keeps him horribly alert. He tells Prompto sternly, “I can manage.”

After a conspicuously silent moment, Prompto weakly mutters, “No offense, but it doesn’t look like you can. I don’t want you to... uh... y’know... stain yourself...”

Ignis doesn’t want that either. It’s too hard to find the time and amenities to give their clothes a proper wash, and besides, it’d be humiliating. Ignis still can’t bring himself to take up Prompto’s crazed offer. His wishes he weren’t even considering it. But he’s pushed right to the edge, and his frantic mind does ponder over the possibility: he _does_ have a problem, and Prompto, apparently, has an eager, willing mouth...

Prompto leans over, ducking down beneath the wheel and breathing over Ignis’ crotch, warm breath ghosting right through the fabric. “ _Please_ , Iggy? I wanna help...”

And Ignis wants to _be_ helped. It doesn’t make it right. Prompto’s going to give him a whole different problem. It’s a struggle to focus on the road now, with Prompto’s pretty face hovering just over his crotch, Prompto’s soft hair tickling his arms and Prompto’s lithe body arched across the seats. It’s a _very_ good thing the roads are empty.

Ignis’ bladder gives another twitch, and Ignis finally breaks. He’s horrified with himself, but he nods.

He doesn’t look down to see Prompto’s reaction. He stares straight ahead while Prompto slowly unzips his fly, reaches warm, silk-soft fingers down into his underwear, and draws his flaccid cock out into the open. The cold night air is a bit of a shock, especially with the burning contrast of Prompto’s gentle grip, and then the heat of Prompto’s mouth. Prompto breathes over it, and, before Ignis is anywhere near ready, Prompto’s wet lips are opening up to take him in.

He’s slid right into Prompto’s mouth, flat along Prompto’s tongue, teeth carefully pulled back and throat open wide. Prompto takes him absurdly far down, far deeper than the task demands, and Ignis’ feverish brain decides that’s for the best—less chance of spilling. Ignis can’t help himself. He drops one hand down into Prompto’s hair, not really holding on but just taking stock of what he has, while the other grips the wheel harder. His body’s ridiculous tense, his cock hypersensitive. Prompto’s mouth is _warm and wet_ and tight around him, such a good fit, but that’s not what this is for. He can’t get hard anyway, not yet. At least for that, he’s grateful. He tries to warn Prompto, “I’m going to—”

But he cuts off, breath hitching sharply as it happens, body letting go. He pours himself into Prompto’s waiting mouth, and Prompto, to Ignis’ mingled delight and shame, actually _moans_.

Before the stream’s even reached its peak, Prompto swallows around him. A shiver winds up Ignis’ spine. He _stares_ at the road. He won’t let himself look down and see Prompto’s pink lips impaled on his cock. The _feeling_ is more than lewd enough. The sounds are almost just as bad. Prompto actually starts to _suck_ , helping to drain Ignis down with one gulp after the other, constantly swallowing and still suckling for more. Ignis went way too long. He’s far too full. And they’re not _really_ solving the problem, just transferring liquid from one tied-up body to another. He has the brief, shameful thought that someone else will need to drink up Prompto after, but then he pushes the erotic image that conjures deliberately away. There’s no time for such nonsense. They should’ve made time for this. It’s ridiculous dangerous. It’s just plain _ridiculous_. But Prompto mewls and licks around his dick, milking it all out, until Ignis is a shuddering, empty wreck with nothing left to give.

Prompto still sucks at him a little, then pulls off with a wet popping noise that forces Ignis to glance down. He’s just in time to see Prompto lap at the head of his cock, catching any last drops that might’ve lingered. He even gives Ignis a few more licks after that, making sure he’s clean. Except that Ignis’ cock isn’t entirely limp anymore, and Prompto doesn’t look like he’s going to stop.

Ignis has to warn, “Prompto,” for Prompto to finally pull away. He tucks Ignis’ long shaft back in with an almost forlorn air, then zips up Ignis’ fly and pulls back, settling into his own seat. 

There, Prompto chirps, sounding bizarrely satisfied, “Thanks, Iggy.” He makes a show of licking his lips that Ignis couldn’t miss if he waned to. But after that, he’s very careful to keep his eyes _straight ahead_ and nowhere else.

Now he has a new problem: driving whilst making sure he doesn’t develop any _other_ pressing needs.


End file.
